


At the end of his tether

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Super Junior M
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, Held Down, M/M, Rimming, Super Junior M - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zhou Mi is Siwon’s bitch and no one else’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the end of his tether

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy_Dumpling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy_Dumpling/gifts).



> Set after the Shanghai concert in March 2010.

Needles of hot water rain down upon him. Zhou Mi stands beneath the shower, his head tilted back, allowing the water to run over his face, into his eyes. The sound of the spray on the tiles is percussive, familiar. Most of all, it’s anonymous. He could be anywhere tonight. Anywhere but here.

Whenever they’re in China, he likes to leave the curtains open in his hotel room. He never closes the heavy drapes before he goes to bed. He likes knowing his homeland is just visible through the gauzy nets or the vertical blinds. He likes to look out at the traffic, the construction sites, the dust, the swarms of people crossing the roads. At night he watches the neon dance and strobe up the side of buildings.

But not tonight. Tonight he came back from the show and yanked the drapes across, blocking out the glimmer and shine of Shanghai. City of illusion. City of heartbreak.

He thumps his fists against the wall, splays his hands and lets them slide over the wet tiles. Shit, he doesn’t want to think about it again. The way the fans turned on him. The way they were screaming at him to get off the stage, just because he was singing Han Geng’s lines. What the hell did they expect—that no one would take those lines? That they’d all drop into silence? Maybe that’s what the fans wanted—a couple of bars of regretful silence, mournful silence. Never mind that it’d be unprofessional. Never mind that they miss Han Geng, too. It’s always about the fans, always and forever.

That’s why he was so shocked when Siwon told the crowd to shut up. The recollection of it makes Zhou Mi shift restlessly beneath the spray of water. One of the first things he was ever told upon joining the group was: _Don’t bite the hand that feeds you_. The fans are always right. But tonight, Siwon told them they were wrong. He risked his status and the wrath of the management to protect Zhou Mi and Henry.

The rest of the group had rallied around immediately, but—

Zhou Mi turns off the shower and stands for a moment, struggling to control his emotions. It hurts, it really fucking _hurts_. The idea that Chinese fans would boo him. Anywhere else, he might understand it. But not here. It just isn’t fair.

He pushes at the cubicle door and steps out onto the mat. He isn’t going to think about it anymore. No, he’ll get changed and maybe order something light from room service, and he’ll flick through the TV channels until he finds a suitably mind-numbing TV show. At this point even the Beijing Opera channel seems like a soothing option.

Zhou Mi grabs two towels, wraps one around his hair and uses the other to dry off. The towels are soft and warm and fluffy, and as he holds one to his face, he wants to sink into it and not come out again. Stupid, really. He should be stronger than this. He _is_ stronger than this. Tonight just caught him off-balance, snagged on a raw nerve.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He does well at keeping up the pretence while he rubs at his hair and folds the towel over the rail. His hair is sticking out at crazy angles and he tries to smooth it down, combing through it with his fingers. He’s in the middle of this delicate operation, pulling strands from behind his ears to curl just so over his cheeks, when there’s a knock at the door.

He hesitates, backs up a few steps and glances at the bathrobe lying on the bed. Another knock, louder and more insistent this time. Zhou Mi huffs, wraps the other towel around his waist, and goes to answer the demanding summons.

The knocking has become quite creative, almost tuneful, by the time he opens the door. It’s Siwon—he should’ve guessed—also showered, dressed in faded jeans and a half-buttoned shirt. Siwon strides into the room like he owns it, leans against the door and tilts his head. “Your eyes are red.”

“Soap,” says Zhou Mi. “In the shower. Soap got in my eyes.”

Siwon nods but says nothing.

The silence grows. Zhou Mi fidgets, looks down at the carpet. He’s aware that he’s barely dressed. His hair is still wet, and runnels of water trickle down his nape. He resists the urge to wipe at them with his hand. He shivers, more from the weight of Siwon’s gaze than the temperature of the room, and then he realises he’s cold or self-conscious, or both, and his nipples pucker tight, and now he’s embarrassed. He folds his arms across his chest, a blush climbing to his cheeks.

“You need to forget about tonight,” Siwon says, his Mandarin clipped and precise, like he’s rehearsed this.

Zhou Mi exhales a brief laugh. “How?”

There’s a longer silence. It rolls on and on until it’s charged with tension, and then Zhou Mi looks up.

A smile just touches the corners of Siwon’s mouth. His eyes glitter, dark with some emotion Zhou Mi dare not name.

“Come here,” Siwon says, very softly, and Zhou Mi obeys. Of course he does. Siwon silenced an audience of screaming, baying fans with just one command. Zhou Mi is just as helpless to resist.

They stand looking at each other. They’re both barefoot, but it seems like Siwon’s taller. He’s wider, bigger, all shoulders and chest and solid strength, and though Zhou Mi occasionally feels awkward because of his slender height, right now he feels delicate. It’s a strange feeling, one that wakes a host of fluttering things in his belly.

Siwon gives him that almost-smile again. “Take off my shirt.”

Zhou Mi draws in a breath and steps closer. The carpet tickles his feet. He’s more aware of it than of anything else, focusing on the softness of the pile as he reaches out with trembling hands and slips the first button free. He feels the heat of Siwon’s skin, the crisp fabric of the shirt. Zhou Mi swallows. He can smell Siwon, hotel soap and the lingering scent of cologne and something else—confidence, maybe, or belief, or...

The buttons are all unfastened, the shirt hanging open. Zhou Mi stares at Siwon’s body. He’s seen him undressed before, of course, but this time it’s different. Zhou Mi rests his hands on Siwon’s chest, slides them lower. This is a body worthy of touch. Worthy of worshipping with his lips and tongue. Zhou Mi wants to lick him all over. It’s such a schoolgirl fantasy, but he refuses to be embarrassed by it.

Siwon’s eyes are black with lust and fire. He shrugs the shirt from his shoulders and the garment slips to the floor. Zhou Mi hesitates, his fingers on Siwon’s belt buckle. He darts a glance upward, searching for permission. Instead, Siwon reaches out and tugs at the loose knot securing the towel around Zhou Mi’s waist. It drops onto the carpet with much less grace than Siwon’s shirt, and leaves him completely naked.

Zhou Mi’s lips part. His breathing accelerates. He almost bolts, half expecting Siwon to break into laughter and tease him, but they’re beyond that now. Siwon steps closer, kisses him. Not his mouth. His eyelids, the soft skin around his eyes. Siwon trails the tip of his tongue over Zhou Mi’s eyelashes. “They made you cry.”

Zhou Mi’s knees buckle. He clings to Siwon. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Siwon nuzzles at Zhou Mi’s ear, kisses down his neck, up his throat. “But I’ll make it okay.” He takes Zhou Mi’s mouth, pressing a long, deep kiss upon him.

A tremor runs through Zhou Mi. It’s as if he’s cold, but he feels like he’s burning up. He gasps into Siwon’s mouth. If they weren’t kissing, Zhou Mi thinks his teeth would chatter. The tension is breaking him, and he realises just how badly he needs this.

He takes a step backward to the bed. Siwon growls, rushes him, and they half stumble, half fall across the quilt. Zhou Mi manages a brief laugh, winded by the flex of arousal and Siwon’s weight across him, pinning him. He bucks upward, testing just how far he’s allowed to go, and in retaliation Siwon grasps his wrists and holds him down, fingers clenched tight to stop him struggling.

Not that Zhou Mi would really struggle. Not that he could even if he wanted to, because Siwon is so much stronger than him. The thought is ridiculously sexy, and Zhou Mi squirms, arching up against Siwon’s hard body—hard in every way, he notices with a shock of excitement—he _squirms_ , and gasps when Siwon shoves one leg between his knees. Zhou Mi rubs against it, canting his hips and thrusting up, moaning at the delicious friction of denim against flesh, hard thigh against hard cock.

Siwon kisses him again, pulls Zhou Mi’s wrists up and over his head. The gesture is possessive, dominant, and Zhou Mi feels utterly helpless, small and vulnerable and desperate, the way he felt on stage when the jeers and catcalls started. Siwon helped him then; Siwon is helping him now. It feels wrong in a way, but it’s not wrong enough that Zhou Mi is going to stop this any time soon.

Siwon breaks the kiss and looks down. Damp hair hangs in his eyes, his heavy brows pulled tight, his skin flushed. He licks his lips, whispers, “I want your legs wrapped around me. I want you to sit on my face.”

Zhou Mi didn’t think he could get any harder. He was wrong. His cock aches. He needs relief. Needs to come. The hell with what Siwon wants, he needs to fuck _now_. Zhou Mi groans and thrusts up, dizzy with the sensation of Siwon on top of him, holding him down.

“Wait.” Siwon sits up, grabs behind him for the bathrobe, and pulls the long length of the belt from the loops. He rolls Zhou Mi onto his front and, holding him there, licks down his spine, bites at the small of his back. Zhou Mi utters a sharp cry, twisting, kicking out, but a delicious lassitude spreads through him, a sense of melting. It’s like he’s divided into two, one body ready to fight against whatever it is Siwon does to him, and the other passive and eager for more.

Siwon brings Zhou Mi’s hands behind his back and lashes them around with the belt. Just loosely, and the belt is made of towelling so it doesn’t really hurt, but the bonds are tight enough that when Zhou Mi wriggles his hands back and forth, the belt bites a little.

Siwon ties the other end to the headboard. “You can’t escape,” he says, and his eyes are bright with excitement. “You wouldn’t want to escape, would you, Mimi?”

Zhou Mi doesn’t think he can frame a coherent answer. The question seems to be rhetorical anyway. Siwon hurls the pillows from the bed and utters an increasingly staccato series of commands. When his grasp of Mandarin fails, he puts his hands on Zhou Mi and places him exactly where he wants him: on his knees, feet against the headboard, his hands tied behind his back, the tail of the belt hanging down to brush against his arse. The position is one of utter submission, and Zhou Mi hangs his head.

“You look so hot.” Siwon’s flashing smile is replaced by solemn lust. He stretches out on the bed on his front, the captor suddenly brought low, and kisses from Zhou Mi’s right knee up his thigh. Zhou Mi wriggles. Siwon’s damp hair tickles. His lips are warm and soft. He sighs and lifts himself onto his forearms, mouth tracing higher, tongue darting out to lick over the tender skin of the inside of Zhou Mi’s thigh. Siwon makes a noise deep in his throat and nuzzles at Zhou Mi’s balls.

Zhou Mi manages a strangled sound. His cock jerks. He watches as Siwon dances a trail of kisses down his other leg, finishing at his left knee. Then Siwon rolls onto his back, gives him a dirty grin, and shuffles up the bed until he’s between Zhou Mi’s legs. Zhou Mi feels the ghost of Siwon’s breaths, the tickle of his hair even more maddening now. Tentatively, unsure of how far he can move, Zhou Mi leans forward until he feels the pull across his shoulders. He stares down at Siwon’s abs, at the low-riding jeans and the shiny silver belt buckle. There’s not enough give in his bonds for him to bend forward and kiss that expanse of tantalising hard flesh.

Siwon runs light caresses with his fingertips over the back of Zhou Mi’s thighs, following with kisses and murmured words that Zhou Mi doesn’t quite catch. Siwon lifts his head. His hair brushes against Zhou Mi’s arse. Uncertain, Zhou Mi tries to pull upright, hot-squirmy with anticipation. Siwon makes a purring sound and strokes both hands up and down Zhou Mi’s flanks as if to calm him. Up and down, up and down, and Zhou Mi starts to relax. Siwon slides his hands around and once more strokes up the back of Zhou Mi’s thighs. Zhou Mi sighs, trusts him enough to lean forward again, the belt pulling taut between the headboard and his bound wrists.

Siwon puts his hands on Zhou Mi’s buttocks and pushes them apart, lifts himself higher, and buries his face between the cheeks. His tongue stabs out, hot and strong and wet, licking all the way down to Zhou Mi’s hole. There Siwon pauses, breath warm, pressing closer with his mouth, tongue flickering, circling.

Zhou Mi cries out, jerks against his restraints. A shock of pleasure strikes him, anchors him right where Siwon’s tongue is still lazily teasing, shivers through him to his cock. He struggles, cock bouncing and slapping against his belly, leaving a smudge of sticky wetness. His face flames and he claws at the belt, gasps and keens at the sight of his cockhead glistening, leaking clear fluid.

Behind him, beneath him, Siwon rubs his face against Zhou Mi’s arse, teeth nipping at his buttocks, each bite soothed by a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. Dizziness overwhelms Zhou Mi. His breathing sharpens, rasps in his throat. His chest heaves. He feels hot and wet and tight everywhere. His fingers curl and straighten in desperation.

Siwon lowers his head, licks down between Zhou Mi’s spread thighs, tickles his tongue-tip to the bundle of nerves behind Zhou Mi’s sac, then shifts forward to suck Zhou Mi’s balls into his mouth.

Zhou Mi’s head goes back, his eyes wide, a scream building inside him. It’s as if all sensation is centred in his cock, coiled around and around, his balls tight and heavy, urgency thrumming through his veins. His arsehole flexes, needing to be filled. His pre-come spools onto Siwon’s abs. Zhou Mi takes a breath, another, struggling. He writhes and twists, fighting his bonds, pain in his shoulders and a stripe of fire down his back. He grabs onto the belt, pulls himself up straight, gasping. His head is spinning, and all he can hear is the wet sound of Siwon lapping at him.

“Please,” Zhou Mi says, and he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. His hips are moving, grinding, his cock thrusting into thin air. He’s never felt so helpless. “Please, Siwon. God, _please_.”

Siwon’s panting now, his body trembling with the effort of keeping his head raised like this was some kind of perverted workout. His breath gusts hot and sharp against the underside of Zhou Mi’s arse. Siwon mutters something in Korean and puts a hand on Zhou Mi’s hip, forcing him down lower. Tilting his head, Siwon licks at him with slow, teasing strokes, and shame pours through Zhou Mi at the sensation, his thighs spread wide and his hole open to Siwon’s tongue.

Keeping a tight, possessive grip on Zhou Mi’s hip, Siwon reaches down the length of his body with his free hand and yanks at his belt and zipper. The muscles in Zhou Mi’s thighs protest as he slides an inch lower, stretching wider. He moans, high-pitched and needy, the sound rolling through him, a babble of desperate words tumbling from him. Siwon shimmies his hips, his jeans slipping down to his thighs. Zhou Mi almost chokes to see Siwon naked beneath the denim, his cock rock-hard. Siwon grabs it, groans long and low as he gives it one luxurious stroke, then he starts working his cock fast and brutal.

Zhou Mi wants it. He licks his lips, tries to get closer, curling his tongue out for the merest taste. The belt pulls taut; he’s at the end of his tether. It’s torment to be so close yet so far, and he whines in frustration. Siwon licks at him while Zhou Mi watches Siwon jack off, and Zhou Mi sways back and forth, caught by sensation and stimulation overload. He breathes when Siwon breathes, feels every twitch and tightening of muscle as Siwon’s hand moves faster, the rhythm altering. Siwon’s knees bend, his feet flat on the bed as his hips arch. He turns his head, wet-gasps against Zhou Mi’s inner thigh, and comes, shoots all over his belly, his chest, semen spattering up and striping Zhou Mi’s face and body.

Siwon groans, dropping back onto the mattress. Zhou Mi scrabbles at his bonds, frantic. “Don’t stop. Don’t leave me like this.”

With a satisfied chuckle, Siwon uncurls his hand from around his cock and trails his fingers up over his body. He strokes his hand through the shining trails of his come, slicks it over his palm, takes hold of Zhou Mi’s needy cock and begins to jerk him off.

Zhou Mi bucks backward. His knees slide further apart across the mattress and he almost squashes Siwon, who bites his arse in punishment. Zhou Mi squeaks at the shock of pleasure-pain, his whole body on fire. He strains against the belt, against Siwon’s hand on his hip. He’s a puppet, every movement controlled by Siwon, by the grip on his cock and the pressure and beat and slide of Siwon’s palm and fingers urging him onwards.

Siwon lets go of Zhou Mi’s hip, pushes him forward until he unbalances, his weight entirely through his knees, held up only by the belt. Zhou Mi tenses, his body straining, nerves and muscles tight. There’s a storm inside his head, black heat and drowning. He leans into the crush of sensation, knowing he can’t resist much longer, can’t hold on, and then Siwon slides a wet finger into Zhou Mi’s hole and fucks him with it, driving in once, twice.

Zhou Mi lets out an unmusical wail of defeat, his climax unravelling from the base of his spine. He stretches out, gasps for it, reaches for it, screams for it, and then it shatters over him, an explosion of violent shuddering heat so intense it silences him.

A lifetime seems to pass before he can put himself back together.

He’s crying, Zhou Mi realises long moments later. Silently crying, warm tears streaking his face and dripping onto Siwon’s chest. He’s trembling with reaction and he feels drained in every way possible. It’s like the top of his head has lifted off, and he’s glad now of the belt still tied around his wrists, because he can grab onto it, twist it between his fingers, and it feels real and it’s like the only thing still tethering him, and—

Zhou Mi utters a soft whimper of complaint when Siwon wriggles out from beneath him. Siwon eases him back a little, unties the belt from the headboard, then with exquisite gentleness he unfastens the loops around Zhou Mi’s wrists. Sitting behind him, Siwon rubs Zhou Mi’s shoulders, pressing down with his thumbs, relieving the knotted tension. It’s so blissful that Zhou Mi trembles into an aftershock and relaxes back into Siwon’s arms.

They’re both flushed with heat and slimy-sticky-wet with semen and saliva and sweat, and Zhou Mi wonders vaguely if he—if _they_ —can make it to the shower again without keeling over.

Siwon nuzzles against Zhou Mi’s neck, licks at the sheen of perspiration. “Your eyes are red.”

Zhou Mi manages a shaky laugh.

“Seriously,” Siwon’s voice is rough and dark and rouses sexy, squirming things inside Zhou Mi all over again, “only I can make you cry, understand? Only me. No one else.”


End file.
